


The Pomegranates of Gehenna

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amorality, Attempted Murder, Biblical References, Blackmail, Bloodplay, Bondage, Brainwashing, Branding, Cannibalism Play, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Classical References, Coercion, Control Issues, Crimes & Criminals, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark, Depression, Discrimination, Dissociation, Dominance, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Far Cry 3 - Freeform, Forced Prostitution, Gambling, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Heavy BDSM, Human Trafficking, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Imprisonment, Incest Kink, Isolation, Lima Syndrome, Literature, Love Poems, Master/Servant, Mental Breakdown, Metaphors, Mind Control, Molestation, More Chapters to Come, Mutilation, Mythology - Freeform, Parent/Child Incest, Pedophilia, Psychological Torture, Racism, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slut Shaming, Stockholm Syndrome, Submission, Sugar Daddy, Trauma, Victim Blaming, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, affection and empathy eluded the cruelest, harshest of men – because they could not feel it. The trait of amorality fueled by the simple truth in the fact that his soul was as black as ink. Cold as the winter. She? A victim of her own predicament. Stockholm Syndrome. The illusion of infatuation. Hoyt Volker, the cause of it all felt no pity for her pleas – much like Lucifer himself felt none when tricking Eve into accepting the apple of knowledge and downfall. As things were, she was trapped at the jaws of hell with no escape, liberation or redemption in sight – and he was nothing short of the devil in the flesh, pulling her further down the rabbit hole. His own, personal inferno. Where he was lord and master of all he surveys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conditioning

_**“Lost in Hell,-Persephone,** _  
_**Take her head upon your knee;** _  
_**Say to her, "My dear, my dear,** _  
_**It is not so dreadful here.”** _  
**― (Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems)**

* * *

 

 

 

Love hurts – he tried to convince you, when he first bought you.  
First had you transported in, ransoming your head off his pirate’s rough care.  
Delivering you from one bamboo cage to another – an iron one, this time around.  
Iron was the the optimal metal for keep the disobedient pups trapped.  
Obedient, docile, unmoving, cornered, imprisoned, hidden away.  
Wood could be brought down, cut down, shattered.  
Iron, never – unless time rusts it to powder.  
And time was a cruel mistress.  
Unrelenting, merciless.

 

 

And of course, you heard this strange, somewhat bittersweet ideal before – that love has to ache immensely, beyond human endurance, beyond one’s capacity of understanding to even be considered real. That romance has to be tragic. Unattainable. Agonizing in it’s development. That it must have an unhappy ending as routine, norm, custom, expectation, tradition, some old, celebrated thing Shakespeare himself would perhaps write sonettes about when he conjures up Romeo and Juliet, when Petrarch sings of his Laura, when Dante describes his woe towards Beatrice, when Arthurian myths weave the tale of Tristan and Isolde – and of course, he was a well-read, educated, polished man beneath his unseemly, crude exterior, you noticed right away. Hoyt Volker collected many things. His golden watches. His pristine chains. The branded, high-lane suits he never wore or interchanged. Bottles of overpriced liquor. Unsmoked tobbaco. Stolen, smuggled pieces of period artwork. The skins of endangered species – panthers, tigers, leopards. Imported antiques. Signed, vintage records, diamond editions. And then, there were his books. A library of them. In the middle of the unhinged, disorderly, searing, overgrown jungle – a trace of civilization, sanity, knowledge and humanity amidst the madness.

 

 

A fucktoy wasn’t meant to touch his copies of Nabokov.  
His own, personal rendition of The Blood Meridian.  
The Lord of the Flies – entirely fitting for his environment.  
A dusty, worn, hard cover of The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka.  
His numerous encyclopedias on American Slavery – to add to the irony.  
But, you outside of physical prohibitions, you were allowed to observe, watch.  
That is, when you weren't ordered to pin your gaze to the ground and lay prostrate.

Act out the role of an immobile statue, a piece of furniture, a decorative piece in the corner of the room.

 

 

Sometimes a mantelpiece - sometimes a chair - sometimes a leaning object - sometimes a vase.

 

 

 

Even then, it was quite hard not to notice when he was reading and how often.  
Licking his lips ever so slightly with a snake’s tongue as you sat chained to the foot of his bed.

 

 

Tolkien – a South African writer moving to England at the turn of an era – how fitting.  
The unfitting thing was that he was looking over the tale of Beren and Luthien.  
Love stories in general, you believed, you weren’t his echelon, certainly.  
You knew little about him but his name and profession.  
No family and no dear ones – he was quite alone.  
Outside of his henchmen, hirelings.  
And he never seemed warm.  
Gentle or sweet in general.  
Save when acting.

 

 

Such a cold, dark man with such a wast array of romances was a strange thing to be sure.

And then he spoke, silently, teasingly.

 

 

_-“Do you know what’s so special about this goddamn story?”-_

 

 

He asked slowly – the sugar on his smiling lips molten, saccharine, sickeningly aromatic.

 

 

_-“Luthien was willing to give up her kind’s immortality, her father’s favor, her safety, her freedom and her entire fucking life all for the man she loved! A tiny little mortal mutt! Hah! She literally traversed the jaws of hell for him and threw herself into danger a thousand times all for the chance of being with him! Isn’t that beautiful!? Fan-fucking-tastic!? Now, imagine if my slaves did that for me! That’s what I like! That’s what I call – profitable! Progressive!”-_

 

 

He finished mockingly, suggestively, somewhat jokingly – his seemingly jovial, harmless, cocky grin quickly, disturbingly evaporating into something sinister, something dangerous, something deadly with the moment as he flipped the book aside and practically jumped up from his black cherry carved, ottoman bed draped over with a red silks and satins one would only find synonymous with a shady, seedy back-alley brothel, professional deformation, perhaps, a great many years visiting boardy-houses worldwide must have taught him a thing or two – towering over you with small, sauntering steps as he crouched down in a mimicry of care, tenderness, a hollow sort of affection – the devil having some sympathy, pretending to give a fuck in his own, personal manner, caressing your hair with fingers akin to spider legs, long, sticky, tantalizing – his green, piercing, hooded eyes attempting to appear doting before he yanked you by the end of your chain unexpectedly, harshly, without a warning, cutting off the route of your breathing in one fell swoop. Before you knew it, you were choking on your collar, unswallowed saliva tricking down your numb jaw. He confessed once that he liked to see his pets drool around, coated in their own vomit, own fluids, own spit – it reminds them of what they truly are. Dogs. Animals. Beasts. Less then living, breathing people.

 

 

_-“Would you ever die for me like she did? Bleed for me like she did? Would you do Papa the honor? You don’t really love me if you answer with a “no”, you know. And that makes me sad. So very, very sad. You wouldn’t want to make me sad, now would you? I’m not that horrendously evil towards you. I’d like a proof of love.”-_

 

 

He demanded with a honeyed, syrupy voice.  
Comprised of way too much wholesomeness to be natural.  
Way too much endearment to be real, to be agreeable, pleasing.  
You started up at him mutely, uncertain of what he wanted.  
Exactly what he was looking for with such an odd request.  
You were already being used in whatever way he saw fit.  
A fleshy container he can spill his seed into.  
An entertainment in idle hours.  
A beating-bag for idle fists.

A proof of love?  
What did he require?  
A confession of ever-lasting affection?  
You’d probably give it too – purely to avoid the bite of the belt.  
Making it harder for yourself wasn’t wise – saving an integrity which was nonexistent was foolish.  
You might as well kiss him and declare yourself his.

 

 

 

_-“Forgive me. I misunderstand, sir.”-_

You struggled, your voice a hushed, broken whisper beneath his crushing grip.  
Hoyt cackled in return, his tone a slashing, verbal whip.

_-“I’ll clarify, dear girl.”-_

 

 

He cooed when his palm fell upon you in the fragment of a millisecond.  
You felt the slap resonate in your bones.  
Each and every time.  
Fifteen times in total, to be exact.  
You counted – he made you count - he liked the pained numbers more then he liked anything else.


	2. Indoctrination

_**-“When Hades decided he loved this girl** _  
_**he built for her a duplicate of earth,** _  
_**everything the same, down to the meadow,** _  
_**but with a bed added.”-** _  
**― (Louise Glück, A Myth Of Devotion.)**

* * *

 

 

Hoyt asked you once to describe all the things you held dear.  
All the things close to your heart back in the days when you lived outside.  
In the heartland of society, in the state of normality, tranquility, predictability.  
Before you were abducted, captured, incarcerated, made his.  
Stranded on an island blurred out on every map.  
Wholly invisible on the world globe.  
Just the way he preferred it.

 

 

It was more of a threat, a command, an order rather then a mild, lighthearted, amiable request as he held your fingers in the grasp of his crushing, vice squeeze – licking, probing, tasting, biting and cutting into your flesh with promises of amputation, removal and clean cuts, trapping your nails between his tongue and his teeth – never separating his gaze from your own, pinning you down with nothing more then the steadiness of a frozen, darkened gaze, tasting the odorous aroma of sweat and salt on your skin, complementing your scent only to imminently afterwards twist his features in disgust and spit out your blood, warm and tickling on the tip of your tissue fractured beneath his fang– remarking that shit can only smell like shit. No more, no less. And he would hurt you – he would rip you beyond recovery and repair, he promised, if you wouldn't comply. If you wouldn't share your inner leanings. Your private desires. The things you adored. Revered before your fall. Anything and everything he demanded to know. Discover. Was it something insipid and traditionally feminine like flowers? Gardens? A beautiful array of attire? Jewelery? All things bright and all things sparky? The pleasure of aesthetics in every shape, way and form? Or were you the harder, more robust type? Freedom? Daredevilish attitudes? Movement?

 

 

Who was he kidding, though?  
If you were strong, you wouldn’t be here today.  
Bent over a semi-stranger’s lap who’s hand left a stringing pattern.  
A crimson butterfly etched into the lump of flesh dancing beneath his touch.  
Wearing a leather glove solely for the clinical, cold, distant feeling without intimacy.  
A wonderful, aching posterior for all he was concerned – he told you so himself.  
His one favorite thing to pound on you, outside of everything else.  
But, your brain, your mind – he enjoyed fucking that the most.  
Overtime he learned that broken hymeneal skins are irrelevant.  
Bleeding cunts and sore wounds are thing of mediocrity.  
If any body-part was an eternal playground –  
It must have been a thrall’s psyche.

 

 

What a joyride!  
What a thrill!

 

 

_-“I’m asking about your preferences simply because I like to know exactly who it is I’m working with. I like to know every itty-bitty detail. Should I explain further, angel?”-_

 

 

One half of his bony, skeletal face shrouded in the feverish, heavy darkness of the cell as he whispered, the coarseness of his accent overriding the forced quietude of his needle-piercing prompt – his accent always managed to induce dread, shadiness, shiftiness, cynicism, sarcasm, the illusion of anger, internal hostility – or maybe he was, internally, furious, enraged, acerbic – he always seemed so, even when you were twisting sprawled out on his leather, polished chair, hands cuffed behind your back, taking the spankings of an unbuckled, searing belt, leaving you heaving, breathless, in tears and fearful of what he might do with the information, the knowledge of your precious things, darling thoughts, sweetest memories, fondest events, childhood crushes, hidden nostalgia. He twisted everything that was beautiful, after all. Everything that was pure, light, admirable, fair, lovely to behold.

 

His Archipelago was proof.  
Paradise on earth, a tangible heaven.  
Eden itself renewed after the primal fall of mankind.  
Now, rotting, burning soil beneath Hoyt Volker’s boot-heel.  
A prison penal colony for the condemned, the damned and the addicted.

 

 

If you were to open up to him – he would destroy the island of your insides as well.

He would do it gladly – he would cut the tendrils of your sanity bit by bit.

Until nothing remained but the tattered, torn remains of a used-up puppet.

 

 

_-“I want to know what it is you love so I can take it away from you. You need only me.”-_

 

 

 

He reaffirmed after the wetness of the serpent’s barbed, jagged, slippery tongue invaded your trained, bruised mouth, blue from all the various times he took you across the face in sheer spite, an authoritative flash, establishing disciplinary measures for whatever transgression you might have indulged in – breathing in air the wrong way, perhaps -pushing past all defenses, leaving you with the taste of tobacco, smoke, spice, Cognac and a bloody Tartar stake alongside the desire to respond that it is him you love - your self-awareness still serving your well enough to recognize your own developing Stockholm Syndrome, your own illness, your own defect, your own flaws, pinning unto his chest the brooch of affection purely to see him conflicted as he destroys himself in a fit of irony. A hopeless rag-doll can dream the highly improbable and unachievable, cant she? But, you didn’t. Something stopped you. Terror, maybe. Docility. Meekness. His associates often remarked that the boss had the peculiar tendency of going for the softer, shier ones. When you squeeze them, their insides flow out through the cracks in their body like so many candies, sweets and edible delights.

 

 

In honor of that, you practiced honesty.  
Told him you loved life, in all it’s goddamn glory.  
Then he took from you just that, drinking down like so many olive martini garnishes.


End file.
